The Yearning (16 page)

Lily stepped aside to let her pass. Ben didn’t move until Lily grabbed his arm.

Jasmine went to the bed, her fingers skimming Mike’s palm. A spark rose between them, a charge of interest, the same as the first time their eyes met. It didn’t quiet her trembling hand or warm her clammy fingertips. He held them carefully to let her know he posed no danger. She responded with a smile of sheepish appreciation and escalating lust. Both parts of the same women, though to what degree?

He warned himself it didn’t matter. She searched for men with whom she had a connection and had chosen him, though only because of the curse. Her kind of woman preferred corporate types, handsome hunks like Connor. She’d said as much. When this was over, and he’d see to it somehow, he doubted she’d be glad he’d been in her bed.

His attention must have troubled her or perhaps she’d read his pained expression, because she averted her gaze. It went to the raw spot on his wrist. “You’re hurt.”

“Not really.” He thought fast so she and the others wouldn’t guess what he’d been doing. “I forgot the cuff was there and moved my hand too quickly.”

She heard his lie. He’d tried to get free. What man wouldn’t? No guy liked a lunatic imprisoning him. Humiliated by her actions, she wanted to run. Desire wouldn’t allow it, boring into her core with each tap of her heart. Drawn to his wound first, she kissed the skin around it, indulging in his refreshing scent, tonguing his pulse. His fingers curled to settle on her cheek. Jasmine’s throat jerked with her prolonged mewls. She moved her face into his palm, coveting it more than she did sleep or food, reveling in its bulk and might.

Someone moaned, sounding embarrassed. Probably Violet. “Please leave me and Mike alone,” Jasmine asked.

Lily answered. “I don’t think so.”

“I agree.” Ben’s voice.

Jasmine straightened, noting the gun in his hand. She glanced at Violet.

Her sister’s blush deepened to crimson, brighter than the bougainvillea on the porch. She spoke haltingly, “Maybe it’s best if Ben stays, in case you need him. He can wait in the bath. Isn’t that right, Ben?”

“He could wait outside the bedroom door,” Mike said.

“I don’t think so,” Lily repeated.

Jasmine regarded her sisters and Ben. They feared she liked Mike so much she’d feel bad and help him escape. They weren’t going to risk it or give him a chance to flee on his own. Laughter, bitter and helpless, bubbled in her throat, because they were sadly wrong. She liked him so much she didn’t want him to ever leave. Even if the curse ended, she’d be in a worse prison. One forged by his hold on her. Her body would still obsess for his, while her heart would ache for his calming voice and embrace. Not that it mattered. Given his freedom, he’d bolt faster than Connor fled Desiree. She’d never see him again.

He’d become a painful memory of loss, a mocking reminder there never could have been anything lasting between them. He’d only been attracted to what she’d become. Without the curse, she was horribly shy, dreadfully bland. Not what he wanted.

Head down, she spoke to her sisters and Ben. “None of you have to stay. I won’t let him go.”

Mike moved his leg under the sheet, swishing it.

She kissed his ankle through the thin cotton, truly Desiree’s creature, wanting a man she could never have, doing everything she could to keep him for as long as possible. Her voice was sluggish with defeat. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay.” His fingers grazed the ends of her hair.

“Ben stays,” Lily announced in an anxious voice. “So does the gun. Come on, Violet.” Their footfalls retreated. The door creaked closed.

Chapter Nine

“You should eat,” Mike said to Jasmine, hiding his fear for her. She’d changed subtly since she’d come into the room. An air of resignation showed in her face and voice. How many weeks or days would she last if he didn’t do something? “Let’s see what we have.”

She sat near the tray, her hand on his foot. “Mexican, by the smell of it.”

“Violet’s best dish.”

With Ben’s comment, Mike put the metal cover to the side and turned to him. “Did you finish your research or even start it?”

“I’m working on it.” A wounded tone shaded his voice. “I couldn’t find everything I need.”

Like what? An FCC guarantee that an email or phone call wouldn’t have the cops storming over here? “How much longer will it take?”

“I don’t know,” he growled. “I can’t risk making a mistake.” His pale blue eyes jerked to Jasmine.

A melted string of Monterey Jack hung over her thumb. Listless, she tongued it off.

Mike smiled. “Looks good.”

Her gaze flicked to him, then dropped to the plate. “You’re talking about Desiree. The two of you are looking for her.”

Wariness and something he couldn’t place rang in her voice. “We’ll find her. This will end, I promise.”

She nodded gently. The heel of her hand went to her forehead.

“What’s wrong?” Heart catching, he circled her biceps with his fingers and leaned close. “Does your head hurt?”

“Just a little dizzy.”

“You should rest. Try to get some more sleep.”

“No. I’m fine.” She managed a brittle smile.

Reluctantly, he removed his hand.

Blinking tears from her eyes, she uncovered the second plate. Caramel flan and cinnamon crisps. She bypassed it and the monstrous enchilada to scoop a bit of the refried beans on her fingertips. “Try this.”

He took her hand, pleased it was slightly warmer. “I had a fifteen-course breakfast. You didn’t. You should be the one who’s eating.”

“I’m watching my weight.”

“No, you’re not. You’re perfect just as you are.”

Her eyes grew shiny again. She whispered, “You first. Please.”

Eyes on her, he sucked all three fingers into his mouth, noticing the taste of her skin more than the beans’ flavor, and it was damned good. She was better. Succulent female with a gentle sweet core. He tongued the last of the food from his teeth and concentrated on licking the traces from her fingers. Cleaned, he kept them near his lips, not wanting to let go, unwilling to hide what he felt.

“Tell me about you,” she said. Curiosity shone in her gaze.

He wasn’t certain where this was heading and avoided an answer. “I thought I did at the club.”

“I want to know more. Everything. I’ll keep asking till you tell me. We have so little time.”

His belly cramped at her comment. The floor squeaked with Ben’s shift in weight. Mike had forgotten about him. “Is something going on besides the dizziness?” he asked her. “Does your head hurt? Do you need to lie down?”

Jasmine’s fingers curled over his, catching on his bottom lip. “I need to know about you, Mike.”

He joked. “I swear it’s boring.”

“Not to me.”

Was that her talking or the curse? Again, he told himself it hardly mattered. She didn’t really want him. She never would. His only purpose was to help and keep her safe. Sighing, he tried to think of what to say and just went with the truth. “My childhood was uneventful, except for the usual crap boys get into. You know.”

“No, I don’t. Tell me.”

Uncomfortable, he frowned.

“Please,” she said.

Her plea melted his resistance. He considered his greatest adolescent crimes, settling on one. “When I was eleven, I sneaked a smoke from my dad’s stash. By the time I was seventeen, I was going through a pack a day, working odd jobs after school to pay for them. Dad started getting sick and it scared the shit out of me, so I quit for good when I turned twenty.” He shrugged, finished.

“What else?”

He hadn’t a clue what to say and thought for a moment, recalling an event he’d forgotten. “At my buddy’s fourteenth birthday party I got drunk for the first time, along with the rest of the guys. I had a hangover that lasted two days. As I remember, it felt like someone was shooting rocks into my eyeballs.” He grinned at the stupidity of youth.

Her fingers traced his lips. He sobered. She asked again, “What else?”

Why did she want to know? Where could this possibly lead? He wanted to argue for her to eat, to let him call Erica. In the end, her next plea had him throwing out what he could recollect, though it wasn’t much.

“All through school I got A’s in math and science and struggled with history. I just couldn’t get interested in such tedious crap. I wasn’t one of the cool kids. I was far too tall and skinny. In those days, I wore my hair so short and had such a slight build a girl I liked called me Mr. Eraserhead. She said my head looked like an eraser on top of a pencil.” He winced inwardly at the awful memory. “I did my level best to avoid her after that. In my sophomore year, I found sports or they found me, and I learned discipline for the first time in my life. It’s not that my parents didn’t keep me in line, but my coach—God, he was a real fucker. Hiding my smoking habit from him nearly killed me, but it didn’t get me to stop. I puffed away whenever I was off court and under his radar. I played varsity basketball in high school and college, though nothing the NBA would be interested in. Dad seemed disappointed, not that he said anything. He was too nice a guy to hurt my feelings. Mom just wanted me to be happy and to stay out of trouble. I tried not to let either of them down.” Wrung out, he lifted his shoulders for a second time, truly having nothing else to offer.

She squeezed his fingers gently. “More.”

He laughed. “There isn’t any, really.”

“Tell me why you feel so guilty. You’re so sad.”

A pain, deep and familiar, pricked his chest. He shook it off. “I’m not. I’m worried about you.”

“You’re grieving. I can see it in your eyes. What happened?”

He stared and lowered their hands to the bed. His eyes fixed on their laced fingers not her.

“I want to help,” she said.

“I don’t need any.”

“I can listen. Tell me.”

“No.” He released her hand and toughened his voice. “You need to eat. Go on. Have all of it, I’m not hungry.”

“We have so little time.”

“Dammit, quit saying that! I’m going to find that bitch and fix this!”

“Because it will ease your conscience over what happened in the service?”

His teeth clenched. He averted his gaze.

She put her hand on his chest, her fingers curled slightly, consoling. “Whatever’s troubling you, you did all you could.”

Mike pushed her hand away. “How in the hell could you know that?”

“You wouldn’t have been with the service if you weren’t good at what you did.”

“Oh, yeah? You should tell that to my partner.”

“I’m sure he’d agree.”

His fingers fisted in the sheets. He wanted to tear them apart or punch something.

“He would,” she said.

“From a grave?” he shouted, looking at her. “You want to know what happened. Fine. During a witness transfer, he was shot. He died. That’s why I left. It was my fault.”

“No.” She rebuffed his claim, disbelief and melancholy in her voice. “You were shot too.”

He growled, “Don’t you understand? I should have protected him. I saved myself instead.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“It’s the fucking truth!”

His rage didn’t faze her. “How could you have saved him when you were hurt?” Her thumb rubbed his scar’s craggy surface, the action saying she’d erase the imperfection and horrible moment for him. “The bullet hit your right arm. You’re right-handed. You couldn’t have been able to hold onto your gun.”

Every muscle in his face went slack as he recalled what he tried so desperately to forget. The gun had dropped from his hand with the round’s impact, the slug shattering his humerus.

A surgeon repaired it with a metal plate and numerous pins. The only lingering damage was a partial numbness in his ring and little finger. He welcomed it as a constant reminder of his cowardice.

With her fingers beneath his chin, Jasmine lifted his head, waiting until he gathered the courage to meet her gaze. Her expression was too kind, too accepting. “How could you have saved him without your gun?”

Tears smeared his vision. “I could have taken the bullet. I should have.”

Her head shook, whisking her hair over her shoulders. One of her gold leaf earrings caught in the waves. “You were injured. You couldn’t move.”

“I dodged the shot. It hit him instead.”

“You have to forgive yourself.” She pushed the tray aside and folded him in her arms. “You’re a good man.”

His voice cracked. “You don’t know me.”

“I know enough.” Her lips found his earlobe, temple and cheek as she gave him a series of compassionate and humbling kisses. For the first time in his life, Mike accepted a woman’s sympathy, allowing her to tend to him. Jasmine made certain she didn’t miss any part of his face, from the tip of his nose, to his lashes, brows, and even the mole on his right temple.

In her embrace, he allowed himself to hope, to momentarily forget his past and her present for a more pleasant future. He imagined them enjoying breakfast in this bed on a lazy Sunday morning, bodies bared, newspapers spread out on the mattress, conversation easy as they discussed what to do with the rest of their day—go to the beach or a ballgame, ride his bike to one of the parks for a picnic. Ordinary activities he wanted to share with her, ones that existed only in his mind.

Already, her solace had turned to bruising demand. She clawed at the sheet to expose him. Her mouth trapped his, her tongue striving to fill him as much as possible.

He sucked hard, encouraging it, not knowing how much of the passion was from her, how much from the curse. Nor did he care. Fool that he was, he wanted whatever she could give, willing to pretend her feelings for him were real, grateful her renewed vitality quieted his dread about the time she had left. He’d make certain she survived, just as soon as he silenced her current yearning and his.

Too little time left. Not enough for a dozen caresses or a hundred kisses, when a thousand wouldn’t do. His musk, heat and innate goodness called to Jasmine as nothing else had, depriving her of reason and inhibition.

Ben was still in the room, not quite forgotten.

Ending the kiss, she watched him put the pistol on the floor next to the tray he’d taken from the bed. The gun made a slight clack. The wood recorded his advancing steps.